


Cold

by Callioope



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callioope/pseuds/Callioope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arya returns to the Inn at the Crossroads, only to discover that Gendry doesn't recognize her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold

By the time she arrived at the inn, the rain had soaked through her clothes and her hair hung in a tangled mess, plastered against her face. It was near pitch-dark, and the rain fell in great sheets; the heavy drops hammered down on her shoulders and she felt half a foot shorter.

She fixated on the yellow light flowing from the windows of the inn—the only light to guide her in the dark, for the lantern by the door had burnt out.

Her horse hobbled next to her, limping on the hoof that had lost its shoe. She glanced up at him, the horse she had bought in Saltpans a week ago, when she had taken her first steps in Westeros in years, and the rain could not wash away the guilt. “Just someone else in Westeros I’ve failed…” she thought bitterly, fighting the strong urge she had to turn around and forget everything again.

But the storm was persuasion enough to convince her to wait at least a day before fleeing, so she turned back to the inn, and opened the front door.

The noise hit her almost as hard as the rain. She hadn’t heard it from the outside, but when she entered, dripping water on the wooden floor, the laughter, yelling and singing was like another wall and she stopped, blinking and dazed, in the doorway.

“Come in, child, come in,” someone shouted, and a large woman suddenly emerged from the crowd and wrapped her arms around the girl’s shoulders to usher her towards the fire. “You’re drenched!” she observed cleverly. “Jeyne! Fetch me a blanket! You poor thing, you must be freezing.” She spoke and moved so quickly, the girl didn’t have time to react. “What were you doing, out in the storm?”

Jeyne appeared with a blanket, which the woman threw around the girl’s shoulders before shouting, “Jeyne—get her some ale. Sit down right here—George, move over, give her some room.”

“Miss—my horse—,” the girl stammered, trying to stand back up.

“Bryan,” she bellowed, “go take care of the girl’s horse.”

“He threw his shoe,” the girl said quickly as a young boy, Bryan, hurried towards the door. “Please be careful—.”

“He’ll be alright, dear,” the woman said. “Name’s Martha, by the way. We’ll get you some soup and some ale and when you’re done, you can see the blacksmith about shoeing your horse. Stay put and I’ll back right quick.”

She disappeared in the crowd of people, leaving the girl to stare after her, still somewhat dazed. She leaned back on the bench and watched the people around her. The man George—practically a boy, really—to her right was deep into what appeared to be his fifth beer, based on the steins in front of him. His face was as red as his hair and he was laughing hard at something the man beside him was saying. He had already forgotten she was there, but she didn’t mind, of course.

To her left, an older man was nursing an ale, listening quietly to the conversation around them and smiling occasionally at a bawdy joke now and then. At the far end, two girls giggled and whispered conspiratorially, while shooting glances at two tall, blond knights standing in the corner. She could see only the face of a thin, red-haired girl with blue eyes that glinted in the firelight. Her companion’s long, dark hair covered her face. The girl watched them, perhaps for too long, and felt cold and bitter.

“Here you are then.” Martha had returned balancing a large tray of ale and beer in one hand and her soup in the other. “The smith will be with you as soon as he finishes up.”

She nodded numbly and Martha hurried away, passing out beer as she went, joking with some patrons, chiding others, but all the while red in the face with laughter.

Everyone was so happy. She frowned and sank down in her seat to sip her soup, wishing all the while there was some way to drown herself in it. “What am I even doing here?” she wondered.

**

Gendry knew it was Martha at the door without having to look up.

“Another job for you,” she said. “Horse threw his shoe.”

“It’ll have to wait ‘til morning,” he muttered, and knew—again, without looking up—that she was frowning.

“Think you might want to talk to this one,” she said.

He sighed and finally looked up, wiping his forehead and leaving a long black smudge. Martha never lingered this long but for one reason.

“She’s got the look about her,” she said, watching him carefully.

He shrugged. “They always do. I’ll talk to her in the morning.” He wasn’t in the mood to see another girl who Martha thought might bear even the smallest resemblance to Arya Stark.

“I promised her you’d talk to her,” Martha insisted, glancing over her shoulder back towards the inn.

“We all make promises,” he said, and he plunged the dagger into the water, listening to the steel hiss.

“Gendry Waters, you’ll talk to that girl or I’ll toss you out! Don’t think I won’t!”

Gendry snorted and pulled the dagger from the water. Martha made this threat daily.

“Look, she’s all alone, drenched to the bone, the poor dear. At least give her some company.”

He sighed and knew she wouldn’t leave until he agreed. “This is the last time.”

Martha smiled. “I’ll have a hearty soup ready for you!”

**

She stared at the bottom of her bowl, wondering how it had disappeared so quickly and also why a simple stew could seem like the best meal she’d ever eaten after all the meals she’d had in Essos.

The ale she did not down so quickly; instead she savored it, letting the warmth flow through her veins, feeling the flush from the ale and the fire on her cheeks. In the storm, she had almost forgotten what warmth felt like. But even as the fire spread through her, she shivered, and could not shake the deep cold that had penetrated her bones and her heart.

When she did finish, she stared at the bottom of the stein at her own distorted reflection. Her tangled hair had dried enough so that it was no longer plastered to her face, but she looked even more miserable than she had thought.

“A week in Westeros, and already I have forgotten my mask.” She shook her head and glanced towards the door. It sounded like the rain might have let it up. If that smith ever arrived, maybe she could still leave tonight.

Since she’d started drinking, the hall had thinned out. The two giggling girls were gone—she thanked the gods—and George and his friend had left, too. In fact, the majority of their table had left, and the only one near her at all was the quiet man nursing his drink next to her.

“Strange night to be travelling,” he said.

“I’m in a hurry,” she said, maybe a little too quickly than she should have.

He grunted and sipped his drink. “Ain’t anywhere worth rushin’ too, ‘cept for maybe the bed.” He winked and she slid a little further away on the bench. “You can hurry to my bed, if you like.” He leered at her, reaching out his hand to grab her. She would have punched him—she could take him, she’d taken knights twice her size when she was only eleven, after all—but just then a shadow loomed over them and a hand grabbed the man’s shoulder.

“Sir, I think you’ve had enough.”

The drunk waved the shadow’s hand away and stood quickly, knocking into the bench and spilling what little remained of his drink.

“I saw her first, y’hear! Ya can’t have her!”

“I don’t want any trouble, now, but the girl’s my sister, so step away from her or the only thing naked you’ll see is the side of my sword.”

The man wavered on his feet and considered this for a moment, his hand reaching for his own sword. But the moment was ripe and she clocked her empty stein against the back of his head. He fell with a thud, draped over the bench, and she looked up at the man who had tried to ‘save’ her, feeling maybe a little too wary and suspicious, wondering for a second if it had been some sort of double team trick—it’d happened once to her in Lys, after all.

Instead she found herself looking up into familiar blue eyes. For a moment she was stuck, staring, feeling like maybe she’d been struck by lightning. She could feel her hair rising on her arms, her heart quicken, and a wave of adrenaline rushing through her. It was like when her mother had caught her dueling in the yard when she was kid. She wanted to run. She wanted to cry. She wanted to punch him. She wanted to throw herself into his arms, like the little girl she’d been when she last saw him.

But then he was talking and shaking his head. “…not a thing like her.” He sighed and waved his arm towards the bar. “Martha! You promised me soup and beer,” he shouted. Then he glanced at the man knocked out on the bench. Shrugging, he added, “Join me at the bar.”

Puzzled, she followed him, not really sure why she was doing it. The door was so close, she could still slip away. But then thunder cracked and she supposed, no, she was stuck here after all.

Martha served a plate of warm bread with his soup and he gestured for her to help herself.

“Strange night to be travelling,” he said. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, disturbed by the use of the same phrase, and also, perhaps, by the fact that he appeared not to recognize her.

She broke the bread but didn’t eat any of it. “You’re the smith here, then,” she said.

“It puts the food in my belly.” He shrugged and took a gulp of beer.

“When will my horse be ready?”

“Sorry, but not ‘til the morning. Done for the night.”

She nodded and picked at the bread.

“’s good bread, you ought to eat it. Looks like you could use a good meal.”

“Martha already made me soup,” she said, feeling a little bit like a girl, when her father told her not to play with her food. She sighed and looked away.

Martha looked her over. “You still cold?” she asked. “You’re shivering like it’s still winter. Have another ale.” A drink appeared before her. Tentatively she took a sip.

“Gendry here’s the best smith in the land.” She looked up to see Martha wiping down the table. “If you need anything else, other than a shoe, he’s the one to do it.” She pointed at the sword at the girl’s hip.

She’d lost Needle—again—long ago, but the replacement was more fitting for her size. She’d bought it from a reputable blacksmith during her one trip to Qohor; it cost almost every penny she had but was worth it. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever owned.

“This is Valyrian steel,” she said, fingering the elaborate hilt.

“Gendry can work with Valyrian. He reforged the Lightbringer, after all.” She nodded at Gendry.

“I didn’t reforge Lightbringer,” he said quickly, his face flushing. “I just helped Tobho Mott, that’s all.”

News from Westeros had been sparse, during her time with the Faceless Men, although she may have purposefully tried to ignore it all. She knew enough, though, to recognize the name Lightbringer. It was the sword Jon Snow had used to slay the White Walkers. The metal itself had been red, she knew. It had been dyed by Tobho Mott, the armorer in King’s Landing. If she knew anything at all, she knew the history of that sword, had been unable to tear herself away whenever she heard the name. “Ice,” they had said, the ones who brought news from Westeros. “It was forged from Ned Stark’s old blade. Ice became Oathkeeper. Oathkeeper became Lightbringer.”

She looked Gendry over again, noticed how much older he looked, the wrinkles and bags around his eyes, the way his mouth seemed unable to do anything but frown. His clothes were dirty and stained like they always had been, though, and, sure enough, he still smelled like smoke and dirt and sweat.

But he seemed so old. She wondered if maybe she looked old, too.

“What am I doing here, you’re wondering.” he was saying, “and why am I not back in King’s Landing, with Tobho.” He shrugged.

“He’s waiting for her,” Martha said. If it was possible, he frowned even deeper and sent her a dark, threatening glare.

“Who?” the girl said, glancing between Martha and Gendry.

“Arya Stark.”

**

Gendry stifled a loud sigh and finished his beer. Martha was watching the girl carefully, trying to gauge her reaction to the name, to see if she stirred in recognition. But he already knew that Arya Stark was dead, and this little slip of a girl could not be her, looked nothing like her.

The girl was looking at him again, that strange, puzzled expression twisting her face. It was a look of disbelief.

“I’m not waiting for her,” he said quickly. “I know she’s dead. Martha just gets these strange notions…”

“What’s your name?” Martha said, eying the girl, as if she could will the girl to admit she was the lost Stark daughter.

“Some people call me Cat.” She shrugged and finally popped a small piece of bread into her mouth.

Gendry looked back at Martha, sending her a triumphant ‘I told you so’ look. The innkeeper looked a little put out, just for a second, before narrowing her eyes.

“Anyone ever told you that you have the Stark look about you?”

“These days anyone with gray eyes and dark hair has the Stark look about them,” Gendry muttered. “No one remembers what Ned Stark looked like.”

“I do,” the girl whispered softly. A look of surprise crossed her face briefly, like she hadn’t meant to speak aloud.

“You do?” Martha asked, arching her eyebrows towards Gendry.

“I... I saw him executed in King’s Landing,” she said softly.

Suddenly a loud crash came from the kitchens. Muttering, Martha disappeared, and he felt himself relax, finally.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “She thinks if we find the last missing Stark, we’ll get a reward or something.” He rolled his eyes.

“So that’s why you’re waiting for her?” she said softly, tracing the line of the wood with her finger.

He sighed and looked at his empty stein, wishing he hadn’t finished the beer.

“It’s a long story.”

Thunder cracked overhead again and she pointed towards the ceiling. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He sighed and stood up. “I’m going to need another beer.”

As he poured himself a second drink and then a third and a fourth, he told the long story of how he met Arya Stark, of all they had been through together, of how he had abandoned her for the Brotherhood Without Banners, and of how she had left them all, had left him.

“We searched for her for three weeks,” he said. “We knew she’d gone to the Towers, but by the time we got there, she was gone, of course. We followed her trail all the way here. And this is the last place we knew she’d been.”

The girl, Cat, looked around the inn as if seeing it for the first time. Then realization spread across her face. “So you think she might return here some day?”

“No. Arya Stark is dead.”

Her expression was skeptical. “How are you so sure?”

“She’d have turned up by now, if she was alive.”

The girl chewed her lip and picked at the bread. He sighed.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I’m sorry to bore you.”

“It’s alright,” she said, looking at him rather sadly. He felt ashamed, like she pitied him. The poor blacksmith waiting for a ghost. He took another long gulp of beer.

“I don’t think you believe she’s dead.”

“Of course she’s dead.”

The girl shook her head, her tangled black hair waving in wisps around her face. “If you really thought that, you’d be back at your forge hammering away at another breastplate. But you had to come out here to look. You had to know.”

“What are you talking about?”

“’s what you said, when you first saw me. ‘Not a thing like her.’ Martha told you I looked like Arya, and even though you say you think she’s dead, you still came out here to look.”

**

She knew by his expression that she’d hit the nail on the head. He sat, gaping at her, that same stupid look on his face. For the first time, a little bubble of—was it happiness?—floated up inside her. He was older, and tired, and maybe somehow more broken than she was. But he still had that same stupid look, and she realized she’d missed it so terribly.

“I know what it’s like, you know,” she said. “To miss someone. To wait for someone. I spent two years, trying to get home to my family, only to get further and further away… and all you want to do is bury away the pain, make yourself numb, hide behind a mask and make pretend you feel one way. I became no one. Funny thing is… try as hard as you can… you can’t change who you are or what you want.”

She looked back at him, watched him listen to her words and think them over. She could practically see the gears turning in his head. He cocked his head to one side, squinting at her, looking her over again like maybe he had missed something important. She knew she was still shivering; she couldn’t seem to stop at this point, and she wasn’t sure anymore if it was because she was cold, or because she was nervous.

“Who are you?” She sighed and took a large bit of bread to stall for time. She didn’t know what she wanted. He still didn’t recognize her. She could still leave and turn back. But if she told him who she was, she’d be stuck here, for good; she’d be committed to do, well, what she’d came back to do. Return to Winterfell.

Why was it so hard? To tell him who she was? It’d make him happy, right?

But she wasn’t the girl he was waiting for anymore. She wasn’t Arya Stark. She wasn’t Weasel or Arry. She wasn’t even Cat. She was no one. She was ten-and-eight and she’d killed more people than years she’d lived. What would Gendry think of that? What would he think about the blood on her hands? The way she’d abandoned him? The way she’d fled when things didn’t go her way?

It’d be better to let him remember her how she used to be. Better to let him hope that little girl might return one day.

“Arya?” he whispered. And it was too late. The hope had blossomed within; she could see it glimmering in his eyes.

So she panicked. “I’m no one.” She stood, her stool scratching against the floor, and turned to run away.

But before she could go anywhere, he had grabbed her wrist, and his fingers were hard as iron and she could not move.

She couldn’t look at him.

His fingers reached out slowly to brush a strand of hair from her eyes. They were delicate and gentle, as though he thought he might break her. Finally she looked back up at him, blushing with shame. His eyes glanced over her face, taking in the gray of her eyes, following the line of her jaw, and stopping when he saw her chewing her lip.

A triumphant smile broke across his face. He knew.

“Took you long enough, stupid,” she heard herself say, wrenching her wrist from his hand.

He just grinned and stared stupidly at her.

“Suddenly have nothing to say, then?” She arched her eyebrows at him.

“You stink,” he said. She punched him in the shoulder. “I thought you were dead.”

“No you didn’t. We already went over this,” she said, crossing her arms. “And I’m a little insulted, actually. You think I would die so easily?”

She expected him to laugh, and he did, but then he did something that she did not expect.

He kissed her.

Maybe it was the beer. Maybe he’d grown some balls while she was gone. Maybe he was just a fool. But the Gendry she had known would not have been so brazen, would not have dared to kiss Lady Stark.

This new Gendry didn’t seem to care. His mouth was warm and soft and tasted like beer. It was tender, but still hard and passionate. She’d been kissed before, sure, but those had been sloppy, wet, awkward kisses. Nothing like this. Her heart pounded in her chest and she felt like maybe she had been the one that had drank too much, when suddenly he pulled away, flushing red.

“I’m sorry,” he said, repeating it over and over again. “I’m sorry, m’lady, I…”

“Shut up,” she said, glaring at him, wondering what to do or think. When she had decided to return to Westeros, she had imagined the scenes in her head, of what she might say or do when she saw Sansa again and Bran and Rickon and Jon. But she had never imagined seeing Gendry again, let alone kissing Gendry, and she didn’t really know what to do. “Just shut up,” she repeated, even though he’d already gone quiet.

There were probably a million reasons to walk away, to yell at him, maybe even slap him. But none of these really occurred to her. Only one thought seemed to stand out in her mind, when she tried to think.

It had felt so…warm.

She leaned up, put her hands on the side of his head, and kissed him back.

When she pulled away finally, she felt quite sure that it had been her drinking all those beers, she was so dizzy. Before he could say anything, she said, “You’re coming with me to Winterfell.”

“As m’lady commands,” he whispered, breathlessly.

And then she left him standing there, that wonderful, stupid look on his face, and she knew she had the same stupid look plastered on her face. As she climbed the stairs to her room, Arya Stark realized she didn’t feel cold anymore, not even in her bones, not even in her heart.


End file.
